Forgotten Place (15 page)

"Helen?"

"I'm here," I said. 

"Will you talk to Avery Ritter?"

Even if I wanted to, it wasn't an option
right now.  No way would Orion allow it.  Explaining to
David why I was under house arrest by an ex-lover would open the
door to a discussion I absolutely could not have. 

"This is the worst time you could possibly
imagine, David."

"Are you having problems, dear heart?"

"It's a case."  Should I tell him the
possible link to Danny Datello?  Absolutely not.  Given
the close family relationship between Danny and Sully, the bureau
would probably suggest combining resources.

"You're back to work!  Congratulations,
Helen!"

"If Ritter will give me some breathing room
to close what I'm investigating right now, I'll answer his
questions," I agreed without the intent of doing any such
thing.  My empty plate was suddenly heaped with an unhealthy
dose of urgency again.  Close the case, nail Datello, get
Orion off my back once and for all and disappear out of the reach
of the FBI.  It was clear that no amount of interference from
anyone would change the path one rash act had put me on.

"How much time do you need?"

I gnawed at my lower lip.  "I'm not
sure.  I'll try to call you later and give you an update on
what my timeline looks like.  We've got a slew of detectives
working this one.  I hope it won't be long."

"Helen, I've got to be able to tell Joel
something beyond she'll cooperate later, but I can't say
when.  You know how this works.  Give me something
concrete."

"A week," I muttered.  "Maybe
less.  Like I said, there's a lot that has to happen on this
end first.  I owe it to a lot of people to maintain my focus
on the current investigation.  Believe it or not, we actually
prevented a murder this time, but unless we catch the perp, he'll
keep trying."

"All right.  I can see that your case
takes priority for the time being.  Can I call you at this
number?  What's going on with your home phone, Helen? 
The voice mail is full and –"

"Sorry.  I'll take care of it.  I
have to go."

My Expedition was visible from the windows
in the third floor room, winding around the circle drive in front
of the house toward the garage.  "I'll be in touch."

I muted the ringer and stuffed the charging
phone behind a box.  I ran down the stairs to the second floor
and turned the television on in the media room.  By the time
Orion ferreted out my hiding place, it would simply look like I had
accepted my fate as his charity project.

He found me curled into a chair watching the
History Channel.

"Are you all right?"

I shrugged.  "Maybe a little
hungry.  How did the interview go with Samantha Wine?"

Johnny grinned.  "Did you just admit
that you're hungry?"

"Give it a rest, Orion.  You act like
I've been on a hunger strike."

"What sounds good?  Chinese?  A
sandwich?  More ice cream?"

"An apple and peanut butter."

"I know better than to think you've got
fresh fruit in the house.  Crevan picked up some basics while
you were sleeping last night.  How about some chicken soup now
and we'll pick up the apples and peanut butter on the way home from
the Linder interview?"

"Guess that's all right."

I got up and shut off the television and
followed him down the stairs that opened into the kitchen. 
"Are you gonna tell me about Wine?"

"Promise to eat no matter what I tell
you?"

"I said I'm hungry."  I wasn't, but
food consumption seemed the most directly accessible route to
getting Johnny out of the picture in a hurry.

He started warming the canned soup on the
stove.  "She's convinced that Linder is the only person
capable of attacking Journey," Johnny said.  "But while we
were there, I got some information about Isabella Ireland's medical
condition."

"Pick's disease," I said.  "How is that
relevant to someone trying to hurt her daughter now, Orion?"

"I was thinking about one of her symptoms,
the paranoia," Johnny said.  "Maybe something real evolved
into irrational fear, maybe it didn't.  I keep coming back to
David Ireland's office and what you said about what his killer was
looking for that night.  Do you think if he'd known what he
was after that we would've had a clue anyone had been in the
place?"

"Probably not."

"It was ransacked.  I asked Crevan to
bring the old file over tonight.  I'd like your take on the
crime scene photos, Doc.  Southerby could've told us so much
more if he hadn't died."

"Could have, yes. 
There's no guarantee that he
would've
said a word beyond the
confession, Johnny.  These guys for the most part, take what
they really know with them to the grave."

"Prison is the better option," he shook his
head.  "What's that old saying?  Better to rule in hell
than serve in heaven."

"You read
Paradise Lost
?"

"Don't sound so surprised.  I do know
how to read."

"Seems like it would interfere with your
dumb jock façade is all."

"I went to Catholic school.  We read
all kinds of stuff that would surprise you."

"This information about Mrs. Ireland and her
disease, specifically the paranoia, why is it piquing your interest
all of a sudden?"

Johnny shrugged and poured the warmed soup
into a bowl.  "Crackers?"

"Toast please."

A grin threatened at the corners of his
lips.  He popped a slice of bread into the toaster oven and
leaned against the counter.  "She was fixated on what happened
to her husband, and by all accounts, as this dementia progressed,
it became the single thought she had, certainly the last one she
was able to articulate.  Do you know what the last words she
ever spoke to her daughter were?"

"Not a clue."  I spooned a tiny bit of
soup into my mouth.  "Enlighten me."

"She said
honor thy father
."

"Catholics," I snorted.  The words
struck a little too close to home for me, considering that Wendell
was rotting away in prison while I lived off his ill-gotten
gains.  I started plotting how I might right that wrong from
whatever country without an extradition policy to the U.S. became
my home in the near future.

"I think there could be something to
it.  What if," he postulated, "Southerby didn't find the file
David had on Datello?  If it were you, where would you look if
the office held no clue?"

"Because I'm a criminal mastermind, a chip
off the old block?"

The timer on the toaster oven buzzed. 
"Plain or buttered?"

What the hell.  The more calories the
better.  "Buttered."

"No, I don't think you're a criminal
mastermind or a chip off the old block.  I'd give you my
unvarnished opinion on the matter, but I can only imagine what
having that discussion would do to your appetite.  Let's just
bear in mind that I'm asking you as the expert in criminal
profiling.  Where would our assassin go if he was charged with
finding specific information and he couldn't find it in the obvious
location?"

"The victim's home.  You don't need me
to state the obvious, Orion."  I tore the crust off the bread,
dipped the buttered toast into my soup and nibbled.  "Did
someone break into David Ireland's home the night he was
murdered?"

"No."  His mouth turned downward.

"What?"

"I didn't even think about it at the time
because we had already caught Southerby and he was dead."

"And?"

"Isabella called the police several times to
report an intruder, someone lurking outside her house."

"And nobody believed her?"

"There was no evidence that someone had been
there, Helen.  We thought she was terrified, and justifiably
so after the way David died."

"That could be the answer to who attacked
Journey yesterday.  Southerby wasn't working alone. 
Question is, what could Journey possibly know about this, and why
the urgency to pick up where things left off sixteen years
ago?"

"You said it last night, Doc.  It's the
same reason she can't talk right now.  Her subconscious knows
something.  As for why this is an issue again now, I haven't
the first clue.  If Isabella knew anything, she isn't capable
of talking about it now."

Neither was Journey.  Talk about evil
irony.

"You're convinced Linder isn't involved," I
said.

"Not convinced, but I'm leaning strongly in
that direction.  It'll be interesting to hear what you can pry
out of him this afternoon.  I talked to Ned on my way over
here.  Seems like Datello's insurance guys aren't the mom and
pop variety of Linder's caliber.  He couldn't find a
link."

"Where's Ned now?"

"Making sure we know where Linder is for the
appointed hour."

"I take it he didn't show up at the office
today."

Johnny grinned.  "Nope, but Ned said he
hasn't left the house either."

Chapter 13

There was a moment of silent communication
between Ned Williams and Johnny Orion when he dropped me off at
Ned's car across the street from Linder's house.  I didn't
have to ask what it meant.

"Meet me at division when you're done. 
I'll pick her up there."

I gritted my teeth but kept the hateful
remarks buried for the moment.  Maintaining outward resistance
would only prolong contact with Orion, and he needed to be
convinced without a doubt that I was snapping out of my funk. 
Stubborn man.  I was with the program again, whether he
realized it or not, and the reasons had nothing to do with his
efforts.  I wondered when I'd have another private moment to
talk to Levine again.  Hopefully Avery Ritter was on his way
back to Washington.

"You have a little bit of color in your
cheeks this afternoon, Helen."

"Et tu, Ned?"

"He's worried.  Cut the guy some slack,
Helen.  Do you deny that you feel better this afternoon?"

It was relative.  Physically a little
stronger?  Maybe.  But the waves of anxiety crashing with
tsunami force in my stomach weren't exactly what I'd call
pleasant.

"You're sure Linder is home."

"Positive.  He had pizza delivered half
an hour ago and came to the door in a bathrobe."

"We can only hope he's alone and didn't
simply don the robe to cover his diaper."

Ned shook his head.  "Yeah, Johnny told
me about that nonsense this morning.  I'm gonna have to get
you to explain the allure of that particular fetish to me
someday."

We walked shoulder to shoulder up the curved
sidewalk to Linder's modest brick ranch.  The neighborhood was
old, but with a quaint charm that only an area with stately trees
lining the streets could achieve.  Mother nature covered a
multitude of architectural sins. 

"Who's leading this conversation?" I asked
while my finger hovered over the doorbell.

"Be my guest.  I'm not sure I've had
the pleasure of seeing you in action, Helen.  The legend looms
large."

I snorted and depressed the button. 
When Linder's pizza was delivered, he hadn't bothered to completely
close the front door.  The buzzer hummed loudly, followed by
the sound of creaking leather and bare feet slapping over
hardwood.

Linder flung the door open, gloriously buff
(sarcasm intended).  A stubby, flaccid penis hung between
thighs whose muscle definition had definitely seen better
days.  White skin gleamed in contrast to the patches of dark
brown hair that peppered the slight swell of his abdomen and
pectorals that looked a little too fleshy.

His eyes crawled over me in a creepy perusal
that finally settled on the badge at my hip.  "Ah hell, you're
not who I sent for."

"Did that sound like solicitation to you,
Ned?"

He chuckled. 

"James Linder?"  I flipped open my
ID.  "Helen Eriksson, Darkwater Bay PD.  Please put some
clothes on so we can talk."

"I can talk just fine the way I am."

Unbelievable audacity from such a poor
specimen of male physique.  If he thought it would rattle my
resolve, he was wrong.  "Very well, Mr. Linder.  It's
cold out here, and since you're not dressed, perhaps you'd be more
comfortable if we had this conversation inside the house."

He opened the security door and waved us
inside.  My stomach decided that the blast of alcohol breath
was almost reason enough to revolt against lunch.  I sucked in
a steadying breath through my nose and blew it out through pursed
lips. 

The interior of the room was dim. 
Clutter consisted of empty liquor bottles, pizza boxes, a dizzying
array of dissected newspaper sections and the sexual paraphernalia
Johnny figured we'd find: adult diapers, baby powder, a riding
crop, handcuffs, a gag in the shape of a penis.

Linder's eyes followed my gaze.  He
grinned.  "This is no offer of money, detective, but are you
interested?"

"Sir, I'm a criminal profiler with a
doctorate in psychology.  My only interest in your psychiatric
condition is how it harms others.  Sit down."

The quiescent flap of skin between his legs
twitched.  Mommy issues.  Right.  Strong women were
exactly this guy's cuppa.  Journey's innocence was incongruent
with Linder's type.

Linder sat in the middle of
the sofa, his legs making a wide V.  One hand rested in the
juncture of thigh and hip.  He was interested in the cop game,
particularly
bad
cop with me playing the leading role.

"When was the last time you saw or spoke to
Journey Ireland?"

His eyes narrowed and the interest his body
started to show evaporated.  "Why?  What did that lesbo
bitch friend of hers say about me this time?"